Aftersong

One hears and moves toward it. One moves, but is Not in it, what does not Keep but flowers forth. We aren’t it. It is What lets the sky appear, The sunrise rise to site a circle in Hills whose rocks refuse toRecognize themselves in us. It’s good they Let us be. It’s why we’reHere. And certain there is play and kinship When children jump, and sheep,Or bells take wing from ice cream trucks. Here it Is, in hills that ring theRinging rocks and us, in walls that ward, not As fences that enclose Parks, but as a windbreak protects the field Or olive trees the grape-Filled vine. We’re free to roam. It’s our right to Amble out beyond the Gate. Not nature but valor sustains it, Yet much depends upon Conditions. Young shoots need water and fruits Are only proved on tongues.They flourish then are gone. An everyday Struggle it is to standAnd breathe and, in the breathing, live. There is Nothing stranger. We areTourists. It is a wandering thing. So Many pictures that we Wonder what will nourish us, what it is, And where we’ll go to find Our rocks and what to build, how we’ll know Our arts will yield the strength We need to harden hearts to fear but not To love. Benny Rothman Once touched it in 1932 when He stood atop Kinder Scout with four hundred fellow ramblers, Rothman, The child of immigrants(Romanian Jews), a boy who left school Despite the place he’d wonAt fourteen (his son would study science And get a PhD).The family needed money. He was then An errand boy. Later He’d build a bike from parts he scrounged from scrap. It was on that bike he Rode from Manchester to Wales, there to hike Up Snowdon. It was his First time in the mountains and he tasted Freedom there, traced a kindOf Sunday feeling, for on the weekend A working man could walk.There were camping clubs and CP outings Where the poor and joblessWould converse about the villains who stole The common from the goose.But more they’d talk about the Duke who shot At grouse, the wooden liars,Or the keepers who warned them off the moors. A run-in with these thugsLed some men to plan a trespass on the Mountain in numbers tooGreat to stop. And so they came from Sheffield And from Manchester, twoGroups, to Kinder Scout, 2080 Odd feet above the sea,Its summit. But he lost heart, the scheduled Speaker, was frightened by The wardens and police on hand. They, too, Numbered high. It was thenRothman rose and spoke, the diminutive Mancunian (he was Under five feet tall), not in words like these That praise such deeds, but in Those that kindle courage. He went to jail For it and his arrestWould make it hard to find employment the Next four years. He fought theFascists in that time. Metro-Vicks would hire Him and he’d stay there. A Union leader, he strove for access to The land until his death. That such things are possible make them not To be forgotten. KnowThis: decisions can be unmade but we Can hold to beginnings. What founds us also finds. Above all, life Is trial. So let us leaveOur monumental selves and go, for when The sun is up our eyes Are sharp whereas by night our ears are best. There’s a conversation In the landscape once we hear it, once we Learn to move and be and Be in it, a question that’s asked again. Though it repeats it’s not The same but is as color is in light: It’s always there. Different, It’s a common wealth. Such gifts aren’t given Without gall to those who Want. The grass stretches to the hills. And Though the victory is Small why should we be silent? It’s true. Not Much has happened and we Have no harp. Yes, it’s quiet here but not Private, not remotely, For look, we’re here together. We’ve set out. We dance when chance offers And sleep well knowing the day’s work will be Hard. The golden cup? That’sBabylon. And though full of strife this time, Too, is beautiful. It Is not bad, just dangerous, but where danger Is there is also grace.